HARRY POTTER:the Brothers

Uncle Vernon gave him a maliciously satisfied smile. "Seem's whoever it was realized their mistake," he said.

It took everything Harry had not to roll his eyes. We're they expecting him to get another letter today? It would be a while before anyone even realized he hadn't replied, if it was even a letter that needed to be replied to in the first place.

Harry leaned against the counter, eating his sole piece of toast, as the Dursley's laughed.

A knock at the door a few moments later shut them up, and Aunt Petunia when as white as a ghost.

"Stay here," she snapped, fixing the most hateful glare she'd ever had on him. The kitchen door closed sharply behind her as she answered the door.

There were voices from the hall, a man and Aunt Petunia's. They seemed to be arguing, and the longer she was out there, the angrier Uncle Vernon became. He was turning an ugly shade of purple when Aunt Petunia yelled through the closed door.

"Harry dear, could you come here for a moment," she called in the nicest voice she had ever used. It was even nicer than when the one she used with the social workers.

Heart pounding in trepidation, Harry slowly went to her. Standing just inside the door was a man. He had the same face and tawny skin as Harry's though he was much older and had a healthy sun kissed glow about him. It was like looking into a mirror that showed what he'd look like in twenty years, if he hadn't spent most of his life starving. The only difference, other than height, that Harry could see were the eyes. His own were a bright emerald green, that Dudley often called creepy, while the man's were a soft hazel. They did, however, both wear the same round glasses. Of course, the man's weren't held together with sellotape and looked new.

He was smiling at Harry and his eyes shone brightly with unshed tears.

"Hello," he all but whispered.

"Um, hello?" Harry said unsurely back.

"Harry, meet your father," Aunt Petunia said.

Father. The word echoed through his head. His dead father. The useless layabout and drunk that got him and his mother killed. And landed Harry in the hell that he lived in. Father. Who was standing in front of him, dressed oddly sure, but looking much to healthy for a dead man. Or a drug addict. Father.

His father. Who was alive. His father, who looked far too healthy to be a drunk or a drug addict. His father, who stood in front of him, looking happy and relieved.

Harry shoved past Aunt Petunia, making her stumble into the wall, and rushed up the stairs. They lied. All of them. His father, James, whose name he didn't even know until he started school, had abandoned him. The bedroom door slammed closed behind him.

He snatched his rucksack up and began shoving things in it. A few books, his box of keepsakes, his other set of clothes. The three notebooks he owned, and a couple of pens were also shoved haphazardly in there. Thanking every god he'd ever heard of the snakes hadn't gone outside yet, he woke them with a hurried plea and helped them into the bag.

Once it was zipped, Harry shoved the window open. Jumping would hurt, but it would get him out of the house, away from the liars. A knock came at the door. Harry ignored it and climbed onto the desk, and swung a leg out of the window.

Before he could jump, the door opened and his father came into the room, followed by Aunt Petunia. His father glanced from Harry to the room to Aunt Petunia. She shot him a look that said "I told you so," loud and clear.

Harry knew exactly what she'd told him about Harry in the few minutes they'd spoken.

"Don't you dare jump!' Aunt Petunia said. At least her tone had returned to it's normal disdainful way.

His father looked unimpressed. Well, he abandoned Harry. He could be unimpressed all he wanted. His opinion didn't matter.

Harry did swallow his retort though.

"Why don't you come back inside so we can talk," his father said. No, James said. His father was dead and would stay that way. James, however, owed Harry an explanation.

Harry glared at him, but brought his leg back in and climbed down from the desk.

"Give us a minute, Petunia," James said.

She left the room, and then it was just the two of them.

James seemed to struggle to find words, so Harry found them for him.

"Why are you here?" It probably came out harsher than it should have.

"To bring you home," James said. He walked farther into the room, and sat on the bed. Something that looked like guilt flashed across his face.

"Bring me home?" Harry asked incredulously.

"I..there's a lot for us to talk about, for me to explain," James said.

"Then explain it."

"I…" he started, then stopped.

Harry glared.

James sighed.

They sat there in a stale mate, not quite staring at one another. James looked around the room, at all the broken things, then back to him every few seconds. Harry could imagine what was going through his head, after all, Aunt Petunia was an expert at telling stories about her troubled nephew, then letting them see the room. It cemented her stories more than anything Harry could ever say.Eventually, James spoke again. "I know me showing up here is a bit of a shock to you."

"A bit of a shock? They told me you were dead!" Harry screamed at him.

James flinched.

It was satisfying in an odd sort of way.

"Er..right. It was…there's a lot you don't know, a lot I need to tell you," James said. "You were sent here for your safety. Things have changed now though. It's time for you to come home."

His safety. Harry wanted to scream. What could possibly be less safe than living with the Dursley's? It was the worst excuse he'd ever heard. And Harry didn't believe a word of it.

"What changed?" he finally asked. Then it hit him. "It's about that letter, isn't it? The one they took from me?"

"It is," James said. He was smiling again.

"Look, why don't you pack up your…er..things, and we can go home. I'll tell you everything when we get there. We'll have all the time in the world and you can ask me anything," James said as he stood up.

Home, he said it like it was something special. Maybe it would be, but he wouldn't get his hopes up. He'd never had a home before, not a real one. He doubted the man who'd abandoned him to the Dursleys for his whole life would give him one.

As he made for the door, James added, "I'm so happy you're finally coming home."

Harry rolled his eyes at James' back as the man left the room.

He looked around the room and snagged several more books, which he stuffed into Dudley's empty gym bag he got for his birthday. Dudley wouldn't miss any of it. It seemed like going with James was happening one way or another. And it everything went sideways, well, Harry had his powers. He would think of something.

When he finally made it downstairs, after taking a moment to shift his plans around mentally, the Dursleys were still putting on a show. Aunt Petunia was crying softly. Or at least trying to, there wasn't a single tear in her eyes. They did glint with triumph, though.

Uncle Vernon shook his hand as he came down the stairs. Harry didn't has a single memory of the man touching him with anything other than violence.

"We'll miss you around here, boy," he told Harry in a gruff way. Even with Harry's…James standing right there, the man still couldn't say his name.

Aunt Petunia pulled him into a hug, her fake sobs got just a bit louder for a second. Then she whispered quietly into his ear, "If you ever darken our doorstep again, I'll kill you."

She promptly let go of Harry and dramatically threw herself into Uncle Vernon's arms.

Harry followed James out the door, with all three Dursleys waving at them from the front hall. The door closed with a finality that Harry relished in. He wanted to see them again as much as they did him.

There wasn't a car out front, and Harry thought maybe James had walked from the train station. It didn't fit with him though. His clothes, while the oddest outfit Harry had ever seen, looked expensive. He wore fitted brown trousers with some type of dark leather boot. Instead of a normal shirt, he wore a red jacket-looking top with gold embroidery around the edges and had golden buttons from neck to waist. There it flared out, almost like a tuxedo, except the ends of the jacket brushed the bottom of his boots.